


Stains in the Shape of You

by Sicomoro



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Bruises, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, M/M, Masturbation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Slapping, Teacher Galo, Teacher-Student Relationship, Texting, Verbal Humiliation, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sicomoro/pseuds/Sicomoro
Summary: He’s openly crying, sniffling loudly and letting out little hiccups, and his glasses are lopsided, and he looks like a fucking beautiful mess, this image that Lio has created with his own hands, the reds and purples and the crystal clear tears, like a painting, like Lio dipped his fingers in dye and stained him everywhere.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67





	Stains in the Shape of You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [玷污](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874855) by [butimeowed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butimeowed/pseuds/butimeowed)



> this is a Teacher Galo AU so warnings kinda go without saying. dead dove and all that
> 
> i have a thing for small people dominating someone larger than them. thanks
> 
> There is a [Chinese translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874855) by butimeowed!

It’s gotten so easy.

Mr. Thymos lets Lio push him down. He lets Lio throw his legs apart. He lets Lio touch him, lets Lio push his way inside, lets Lio fuck him shallow and slow and then hard and deep, and doesn’t fight him.

Like how he used to. When his face would be soaked in tears and Lio could cum from the sight of it. His red eyes and his trembling lips and his wet cheeks, and a panicked voice that said _No, no, don’t, don’t. Lio, don’t do this._ And fuck, the thrill of slapping a hand over his mouth, and gripping his throat, and shutting him up. He was so rebellious back then, wasn’t he?

He’s somewhat quieter now.

“It hurts,” he says, and his voice is small and scared. Lio presses his fingers further into the bruise he had been digging into, there on the side of Mr. Thymos’s ribs. Lio flexes his thumb, and shivers at the sharp intake of air he elicits from the man beneath him.

“Here?” Lio asks, gently; he makes sure he asks gently. His thumb pushes in, and Mr. Thymos gasps out. “Yeah?”

“It— It hurts,” he answers, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “A-Ahh…”

“It hurts?”

“Y-Yes.”

Lio watches him, intently. The squirming of his arms, the twitching of his fingers. His wrists being rubbed raw by the lanyard tying them together, his hands drawn up tight to his chest. And, now and then, how he bites his knuckles, how he leaves teeth marks, how he only does it when it’s really painful. And so Lio pushes in again with his fingers, harder, and digs in his nails, and sees the man bite an already tender joint, like one pain will offset another.

But that won’t do.

Lio grabs his wrists, and forces them up, and slams them hard onto the desk beneath them, and feels it deep in his gut when Mr. Thymos whimpers. He blinks open his big, stupid eyes, and looks at him, like he’s sorry, like he’s about to open his mouth and say just that, _Lio, I’m sorry_ , but he scarcely gets a syllable out before Lio shoves a thumb into his mouth, grips his cheek. And thrusts his own tongue in.

When Lio kisses him like this, Mr. Thymos always moans into it, and shudders under him. But this isn’t meant as a treat or anything, so Lio pulls back just slightly, sucks at the man's bottom lip, and bites down on it, hard enough to get that pinprick taste of iron in his mouth. He draws back then, and grabs hold of his hair, and tugs, and drinks in the anxiety visible in Mr. Thymos’s eyes when he tells him, “Don’t fucking bite yourself.”

“I…I didn’t mean t—“

A quick backhand across his cheek ends with Mr. Thymos’s glasses sitting askew. Lio turns the man's face back with one hand. And finally, he sees what he’s been waiting for: tears.

“I didn’t ask for your input, right?” Lio asks, and starts picking up the pace of his hips, because now, he’s really getting close. Mr. Thymos blinks, and Lio follows a teardrop with his eyes, sliding slowly down his cheek and stopping to glisten at his jaw. He moves in, and laps at it with his tongue, and kisses his way up to Mr. Thymos’s ear. And he nibbles at the flesh there, and thinks of how easy it would be to make him bleed, and how much more he’d cry. But they’re running out of time, so Lio says, only, “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Thymos hiccups.

“I’m sorry, Lio.”

“I’m s— I’m sorry, Lio.”

“I’m sorry, Lio Fotia.”

“I’m sorry, Lio F-Fotia.”

“Hmm,” Lio hums into his ear, and senses the way Mr. Thymos jolts, and arches into him. “Good boy.”

And Mr. Thymos gives a full-body shiver, like he often does, when Lio calls him that, and clenches down on where Lio’s cock is buried inside him, like he knows what’s coming. His legs tighten around Lio’s waist, and his heels dig into his back, asking, _begging_ , saying it without speaking. Lio pulls back, and Mr. Thymos looks at him, and pants out little breaths, doesn’t have to say a fucking word.

But Lio likes it, so he’ll make him do it anyway.

“You wanna cum?” Lio slows his hips down to a pace that is torturous even for him, to the point that he gnaws down on his own fucking lip, and has to busy himself with hiking the man's legs up.

“Y-Yeah,” Mr. Thymos answers, breathlessly.

“Yeah, what?”

“Yeah, I wanna… c-cum.”

And Lio smiles, because it’s so goddamn easy to smile right now.

“You slut.”

And so he grips Mr. Thymos’s cock in one hand, and sees his mouth fall open, and hears his sounds, the desperate whines from the back of his throat, the _Lio Lio Lio_ , the _It’s good, it’s so good_. Falling apart in Lio’s hands. Lio snaps his hips forward, and doesn’t even hear himself when he says, “You’re so fucking _cute._ ”

“I’m gonna cum,” Mr. Thymos gasps out. He’s red in the face. His gaze isn’t focused anymore. “Lio, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum—”

Which is exactly when Lio removes his hand, and bends Mr. Thymos’s legs back as far as they’ll go. Somehow, this still catches the man off guard, even when Lio has forced him to cum like this too many times to count. Mr. Thymos lets out a noise like being punched, and grits his teeth as Lio slams his hips forward, as he sinks himself into that tight fucking heat, into the deepest fucking part of him. That part of him that swallows Lio up with a feverish hunger, that takes him in and clings to him. It doesn’t take much for Mr. Thymos to end up spilling onto his own stomach, and Lio pushes in and pushes in and grasps his hips until there’s no doubt he’ll leave marks, and says, over and over, _you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine_. And empties into him.

When he slips out, he pulls apart the man's cheeks, and watches his own release leak out of him. And he takes his fingers and swipes upward and pushes it back in, and if he weren’t so fucking spent, he could probably cum again just seeing this, and the way Mr. Thymos’s legs tremble. But— it’s time to go now. So he stands up straight, wipes off with the handy roll of paper towels Mr. Thymos keeps in his office, and zips his pants back up, all while Mr. Thymos lies wrecked on top of his desk, catching his breath. He stares at Lio with eyes unseeing, and his chest rises and falls.

Which is when Lio takes out his phone, and snaps a picture of him.

“Lio,” Mr. Thymos tries, pathetically.

“I won’t show anyone,” Lio says, stepping closer. He feels, almost, a little bad for leaving Mr. Thymos like this with only fifteen minutes left before the start of his next class. Mostly, though, he just enjoys it. Because this is something no one else can do. It’s something he won’t _let_ anyone else do. Ever.

He dips his face down close to Mr. Thymos’s own, and says, quietly, “I won’t let anyone else see you like this.” And when Lio kisses him, he does it soft and slow and sweet how Mr. Thymos likes it, his favorite kind of kiss, something gentle and light. Lio will do it, because Lio adores him. And he digs his nails into the desk beneath them to keep from picking at Mr. Thymos’s bruises, because it’s enough for now. He’s earned this.

After a bit, Lio breaks apart, and he says into the space between their lips, “I love you.”

Lio never expects anything when he says that. He says it because it’s true. It’s as simple as that. He stands back up, and undoes the lanyard knotted around Mr. Thymos’s wrists, and kisses the imprints there. If it scarred one day, it would look beautiful against his skin.

“I’ve gotta head to class,” he says, and helps Mr. Thymos sit up, noting, of course, the way he winces when he moves. “Will you have enough time to clean up?”

“Y-Yeah, I should,” Mr. Thymos answers, stroking the area made dark red by the lanyard. “I’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Lio turns, and heads toward the door. He’s about to pull the door open when he hears Mr. Thymos’s voice.

“Lio,” he says, and it comes out strained, almost like a cough. Lio turns his head. Mr. Thymos smiles a real angel smile at him, warm and much too fucking bright. Blinding. “Have a good weekend.”

If Lio doesn’t leave now, he’s going to pounce on him again.

“Text me,” Lio says, steeling himself, and walks out of the office, and onward to class.

—

Lio Fotia is a good student.

No, really. He sits down and studies, and turns every assignment in on time. He writes detailed notes, he participates in class, and he tutors his classmates when they ask him to. And on Sundays like these, he stations himself at his desk, and resolutely focuses on one thing: his homework.

What comes after that is a completely different story.

He lies in bed, and looks at the picture he took of Mr. Thymos on Friday, and all the other ones he’s taken, and the short videos he’s recorded, and almost allows himself to surrender to the instinct burning in the pit of his stomach. Instead, something else starts to burn, just as hot. Irritation.

So, before he has a chance to think, he pulls up his texts, and fires one off.

Mr. Thymos 👓❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
  
**Today** 5:57 PM  
I thought I told you to fucking text me.  
  


Most high school students look forward to weekends. Which, all right, fine. Lio did too, before. Back when school was a chore for him. Back when he didn’t know about anything. When all he did was sit in classrooms all day, try not to fall asleep. It’s not like that anymore. It could never be like that again. Knowing what he knows now, it could never be like that ever again.

He sends off another text, just because he can, and also because he’s pissed.

Mr. Thymos 👓❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
  
If you don’t text me back I’m going to spam call you.  
  


He tells himself, five minutes. He’ll wait five minutes, and if Mr. Thymos doesn’t reply— which, he probably won’t— he’ll just ring his number until he answers. He doesn’t care. It’s only 6PM. He’ll do it all fucking night if he has to. He absolutely doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.

He fucking _hates_ weekends.

Mr. Thymos can’t be that busy. To not text him for all of Saturday and now, almost all of Sunday? That’s crazy. That doesn’t make sense. Whatever he’s doing, it can’t be taking up 24 hours of every goddamn day. Every weekend it’s the same shit. And every weekend, inevitably, Lio has to deal with the red-hot frustration of not hearing from him, while trying to finish his stupid homework. He got through it today only because he blasted music loud enough to keep himself from being able to think about it. Though that had the added effect of making it nearly impossible to concentrate on math formulas.

He grips his phone tight in his hand, and fantasizes about how good it would feel to throw it against the wall.

He gets a text just then, and immediately decides against throwing it anywhere.

Mr. Thymos 👓❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
  
**Today** 5:57 PM  
I thought I told you to fucking text me.  
If you don’t text me back I’m going to spam call you.  
Lio im sorry, been really busy! Sorry  
  
  


_Busy with what_ , he doesn’t say, because really, he doesn’t actually care. That isn’t the issue.

Mr. Thymos 👓❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
  
Did I not tell you to text me?  
You did, I know, sorry  
So stop fucking doing this.  
I know, im sorry, I didn’t mean it  
You did mean it, you fucking idiot.  
No really i didn’t, im sorry. Im really sorry  
You aren’t sorry.  
Lio dont be mad, I am really sorry, I mean it  
Please dont be mad  
  


“Of course you’d say that,” Lio bites out. Because, of course. Mondays aren’t good for Mr. Thymos, most of the time, and it’s precisely because of this shit. Because, apparently, he can’t be bothered to follow one simple fucking direction. Something anyone could do. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how to text someone back. So, now, damage control. Because otherwise, Lio will make Monday hell for him.

Doing damage control would never work on someone like Lio Fotia.

Mr. Thymos 👓❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
  
I want to see you in the morning tomorrow.  
Lio im so sorry, I won’t do it again, i won’t  
I promise I won’t  
Lio I’m sorry, dont be mad please Lio  
Shut the fuck up, you sound stupid.  
I mean it, im not lying, Lio please  
Please don’t be mad at me  
I’m really really sorry  
You’re texting a lot for someone who couldn’t do it all weekend.  
Lio I always try to explain and you dont let me  
Please Lio  
Because I don’t give a fuck.  
Who do you belong to?  
Just you  
Can you fucking answer correctly?  
Lio Fotia  
If you know that then ACT LIKE IT.  
  


With that, Lio reaches his fucking limit.

Without any finesse, he reaches under his covers and pulls down his sweatpants and strokes himself, and gnashes his lip between his teeth, and thinks about how easy it is to make Mr. Thymos beg for forgiveness, and how he’ll make him do it tomorrow, and then turn him to pieces. And he’ll punish him the way he wants to, because he deserves it. He’ll make Mr. Thymos cry until he’s sobbing, until he’s aching and screaming and begging for release, until he can’t take any more, but he has to. More than the Mondays before. A greater penalty. A harsher discipline. He’ll learn how to follow directions. Lio will pound it into him until there’s nothing left but obedience and the diamonds of his tears, just crystals trailing down his face, catching the light. Lio will taste them on his tongue, the salt of them, and teach Mr. Thymos what it means to belong to someone. He’ll wreck him, he’ll wreck him, he’ll fucking wreck him.

That’s what he’s thinking about when he cums into his hand.

And for the rest of the night, Lio lies in bed, and looks at his pictures of him, and thinks of how to hurt him. He sleeps little. He stares at the image of Mr. Thymos on his phone screen, and obsesses over the redness of his cheeks and the purple along his torso and the blue of his eyes, and sleeps little.

But Lio Fotia is a good student.

-

Meaning, of course, he won’t be late. He’s never late. In fact, he’s early today. Because they have to meet in the twenty minutes before classes start. And meeting in the mornings like this means only one thing. One thing that Mr. Thymos will struggle against, and snivel about, like a dumb little animal. Still, resistance isn’t an option, so Lio won’t tolerate it.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Thymos stammers, but it’s not easy for him, with his face pressed against his desk the way it is. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Lio—“

“ _Shhh_.” Lio runs a hand along his back, pokes at a few of the yellowing bruises he sees there. He doesn’t remember making them, but they match the size of his hands, so he knows he’s to blame.

“Lio, I can’t,” Mr. Thymos chokes out. His whole body quivers. His legs, spread open where Lio has him bent over the desk in his office, shake like they’re seconds away from collapsing beneath him. “Lio, really, I can’t, I _can’t_.”

“You can,” Lio snaps, and he feels it like fire in his throat when he says that. “You can and you will.” His fingers slip out from Mr. Thymos’s insides, three of them, that had been working him open and slicking him up, and he can’t believe the man would be fucking whining when Lio is going to the trouble of doing this. He could put the vibrators in raw if he wanted to. See how much Mr. Thymos likes _that_.

Because, obviously. This is what meeting in the morning means. Forcing a vibrator into him, making him bear with it all day.

All day until Lio can yank it out and stuff him full of something else.

Well, today he’s using two, so he’s being a little meaner. He pushes the first one in and turns the dial up on the remote, and watches Mr. Thymos shake his head back and forth, and scrabble desperately at the desk like he’ll find purchase there on the smooth surface. His breaths are labored now. The muscles of his back shift beneath his skin. Lio reaches up, and pins his shoulder down.

“One more,” he says, and Mr. Thymos sobs.

He rolls the bullet around in his hand, and then lines it up with his hole, puckered and leaking and fluttering like it could keep him from doing this, offering a little pointless resistance. But the slickness makes it all too easy to plunge it in, and it disappears inside him like the one before it. Lio turns the dial up on this one too, and the sound Mr. Thymos makes has him considering, for a split second, skipping class.

But he won’t. And Mr. Thymos won’t either. His first class of the day starts in the next ten minutes.

Lio uses some of the spare sports tape in the office to stick the remotes to the insides of the man’s thighs. And he tells him, “Cover it up,” and pulls a pair of sweatpants from the locker in the office, throws them at him. The little shorts he came to school wearing are already ruined.

“Lio,” Mr. Thymos blubbers, like it’ll do anything.

Just because he feels like it, Lio reaches over, grabs him by the hair, and slaps him across the face. Hard. With an open palm that stings in the wake of it. Mr. Thymos’s glasses clatter to the floor, and Lio holds himself back from crushing them beneath his shoe. This is the third pair, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Thymos says, his voice broken and feeble, how Lio likes it. How he loves it. So docile, now. It’s so easy to bully him. “I’m sorry,” he says again, so sweet and obedient.

Lio hits him again, on the same cheek. Just as hard. Mr. Thymos starts crying in earnest. It’s fucking adorable.

“Say you’re sorry,” Lio orders, voice hissing out like steam.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Lio smacks him once more, and relishes in how his palm throbs, how satisfying the sound is. Like a crack of lightning. Beautiful and bright and burning like that.

“Again,” he says.

“I’m s— I’m, I’m s-sorry,” Mr. Thymos whimpers, and flinches in the second before Lio hits him. A scarlet stain blooms on his cheek, the color of roses.

“Again.”

Mr. Thymos can hardly speak around the convulsions of his chest, and his tears drip down, down, down, pooling at his chin and dripping onto his shirt, little flecks of pain. His little constellation of misery. Lio waits for him, and after a minute, Mr. Thymos says, in one large, stuttering exhale, “D-Don’t be mad a-at me, Lio.”

That’s good enough for now. Lio moves in, and kisses him, a mixture of soft and hard, light and dark, probing the sweet spots of the man’s mouth with his tongue and nipping at the sore spots of his lips with his teeth. And Mr. Thymos mewls into it, weak and ruined, submissive, yielding. Giving way to Lio, letting him take. A pitiful creature.

Lio moves to his neck, kisses him there, whispers “I love you” into the crook of his jaw. And he presses his lips to the man’s ruby red cheek, and then to his forehead, and to his ear, and says it again and again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Lio takes his face, looks into his eyes, and tells himself to be kind.

“Who loves you the most?” he asks, hushed, like it’s a secret between them.  
  
“You do,” Mr. Thymos whispers.

“More than anyone?  
  
“You.”

“And who do you belong to?”

Mr. Thymos swallows, and says, faintly: “Lio Fotia.”

Lio wipes at his tears with his thumbs, kisses him again. And he says, because he means it, “You’re such a good boy.”

Mr. Thymos blinks up at him, and his eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, and his tears catch on his eyelashes until they twinkle down. Falling stars.

“Really?” he whispers. His voice is raw. It’s so, so lovely to hear.

“It’s why I love you so much, Mr. Thymos.”

  
  
-

Lio makes it through the day thinking only of him. He takes his notes diligently, and jokes around with his classmates, and flirts with the girls that lean close enough for him to smell their cheap perfume. He smiles at everyone, and thinks of hurting him. Faking his way through the school day, while his thoughts are far, far away, stuck inside a small office on the first floor, tucked away in the school’s field house. A room with an unassuming door, with a brass doorknob that he’s committed to memory, how you have to jimmy it a little before pushing the door open. That messy room with equipment strewn about, a soccer ball in the corner, and a desk that often doesn’t have much on it, because whatever has the misfortune of being there has been knocked off too many times. That room is Lio’s filthy little sanctuary.

Naturally, none of these thoughts show on his face.

“Lio, are you busy after school?” A group of girls crowds around his desk during the break period, and the spiteful looks he gets from some of the boys in class are all too palpable. He smiles.

“I am,” he says. “Sorry, but I don’t have time to play around with you all, even if you are cute.”

The girls break into astonished titters, heat rising up to their ears. One of them, a brunette, in a show of bravery, says, “We just wanted to see if you’d like to eat with us after school.”

He leans forward, close to her face. “What exactly would be getting eaten here?”

“Stop that,” she giggles, nervous, shaking. He fixes his gaze on her, and she can’t meet his eyes.

Another one pipes up with, “You never wanna hang out after school, Lio.” Some other girl says, “Yeah, you aren’t busy, are you?”

“I am busy,” he answers smoothly. “I have a lot of things to do.”

It happens then, in an instant. A male trio swaggers over, bumping elbows with the girls gathered around him. Lio hardly knows their names, and has never been at all interested in remembering them. But he is aware of them, if only because they’re always fooling around and causing a ruckus in class behind him. It’s annoying.

“You girls are like hawks,” says one of them, the shortest. “Lio Fotia is always very busy.”

The one next to him, a blond, puts on his best affected tone. “He has _a lot of things to do_.”

An exchange as juvenile as this one is not one in which Lio wants to participate. He’s beyond this sort of childishness. None of these girls even interest him. It’s not his fault they flock to him like moths. They’re weak, and they see him like a light in the dismal darkness of their high school existence. In a building filled with brutes like the three standing here, they look at Lio like something to covet. It’s merely human nature. Lio doesn’t hate them for it, because he understands them. The way they desire him is simply to be expected.

Not that he believes these idiots would comprehend that.

“Lio is one of the top students, so obviously he’d be busy,” the tallest girl says, and then glances at him, as if expecting Lio to agree. But Lio doesn’t, because it’s useless. She continues, pathetically, “Because, you know, he’s studying and stuff like that.”

“Studying for what?” The last of the trio scoffs. “Gym class?”

At that very moment, at that very pinpoint, Lio feels something like a thread snap inside him.

“He’s literally always hanging around with that fucking gym teacher,” another one says. “Like, the one who always looks like he just got his ass kicked.”

“Are you guys best buddies or something?” the blond one says. “That’s kinda weird, dude.”

“You guys are so fucking mean,” one of the girls lashes back, and the girl next to her says, “Who even asked you guys?”

Lio feels one of the boys slap a hand on his shoulder, and somewhere on the inside, another thread comes apart.

“You’re really skinny so he must be trying to help you beef up, huh?” he says, and laughs like a fool. “Is he letting you practice boxing on him or something?”

“Mr. Thymos always has these weird-ass bruises on his arms,” the other one says.

“You’re really gonna talk about Mr. Thymos? He’s a gym teacher, Sherlock, so he probably gets injured all the time.”

“That’s why he’s always got hickeys, right?”

“Are you serious? You guys are gross. You pervs.”

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe us. They’re not hidden or anything.”

Lio can see it in his mind’s eye; a final, black thread pulled taut, the fibers straining, the tension mounting at a deliberate pace. The feeling of this boy’s fucking hand still on his shoulder, the sound of their voices, their mere fucking _presence_ , next to him, loathsome and repulsive. Speaking like they have a right to speak, to shape his name in their mouths. Carrying on like Lio couldn’t reach into his school bag right here and now and pull out his pocket knife and slash their shitty little necks, and watch them writhe on the floor.

The only ones who haven’t said a word yet are him, and the girl from before, the brunette, standing directly in front of him and staring at him, her eyebrows drawn together, her mouth just slightly open. He knows, immediately, that she’s seen right through him, and his charlatan smile.

They’re all still bickering, but it ends when the one with a hand on Lio’s shoulder says, “He honestly looks like he’s being raped every day.”

The thread breaks. And Lio stands up, whips around, seizes a fistful of his hair, and slams his head into a desk.

He lets him fall to the floor, and the eyes of everyone in the entire room fix themselves on him. No one moves, and no one makes a sound. Even the boy’s friends, the other two, look at him like he’s something they’ve never seen before. And in a way, he is.

Their teacher, Mr. Puguna, with ridiculous timing, takes that opportunity to return to their classroom, a steaming mug in his hand. He stops mid-sip at the look on everyone’s faces.

“Hey, uh, what happened to him?” he asks, eyes on the body crumpled on the floor.

“He fainted,” Lio says, before anyone else can even utter a sound.

“Whoa, uh, maybe he should go to the nurse.” He sets his mug down, and motions vaguely with his hand. “You two, take him to the nurse.”

His friends, daring not even to look at him, slip past Lio and hoist the boy up by his shoulders, carting him unceremoniously out the door. And the girls and everyone else return to their seats, shuffling quietly back. Mr. Puguna looks downright amazed. This is a class that is distinctly boisterous. Usually.

Lio opens his notebook back up, picks up his pencil, and returns to being a good student.

-

His rage has built up to a point where he thinks he might not be nice at all today.

The final bell rings, and no one looks at Lio on his way out. He walks in one purposeful direction, and squeezes the straps of his schoolbag, and thinks he can’t possibly be nice today. Not today. He burns to hurt something. Tear someone down and leave them to rot. Ruin someone from the inside out.

He’s already way too hard. He’s going to make a fucking mess of him.

Lio makes it to the door of Mr. Thymos’s office, and doesn’t even knock before strolling into the room. He sees what he was more or less expecting: Mr. Thymos on his knees on the ground, his sweatpants hanging to one leg, fucking himself open with his own fingers, leaking precum onto the floor. Lio reaches back and locks the door behind him, something he doesn’t often do.

“Lio,” Mr. Thymos says, a full-blown sob. “Lio, take them out.”

His cock stands heavy and sore and untouched, as Lio would expect. A violent shiver like an earthquake runs up and down Lio’s body. His heart races with the thrill of it, the blazing anticipation. The knowledge that Mr. Thymos will do as he says.

“Did you keep them in all day?” he asks, pitching his voice low.

“Yes,” Mr. Thymos answers, emphatic. “I did, I kept them in, Lio.”

“I’ll know if you’re lying,” Lio says, but that’s obviously not true. There’s no way he would know, but he says it anyway.

“Lio, I did, I did.” He’s such a crybaby. “I did, Lio.”

Lio sighs, drops his schoolbag to the ground. He leans up against the door.

“C’mere,” he says.

Mr. Thymos shuffles over on all fours and kneels at his feet. And he looks up at Lio, hopeful, somehow, but that’s not going to last for very long at all. His cheek is still red from this morning. It’s so pretty on his skin. Cherry red like a blush.

Lio undoes his pants, yanks them down. He thrusts a hand into the man’s hair and pulls him close.

“Suck.”

He obeys, of course. He mouths at Lio’s cock, and his lips tremble. He licks up and down and sucks at the tip, and does it all completely without grace, messy and awkward. He moves it in his little wet mouth, coughs when it hits the back of his throat.

It’s bad. Lio yanks him back, and digs his nails into the man’s scalp. “You’re always so fucking bad at this,” he snaps. He raises his leg, and jabs at Mr. Thymos’s ribs with the point of his oxford. “You good-for-nothing slut.”

“I’m s—“

“Shut up and let me fuck your mouth.”

Not that he waits for Mr. Thymos to give permission. He doesn’t need it. He takes the man’s face in both hands, and pushes his cock into the tiny cavern of his mouth, and rams in deep enough to make him gag. And he doesn’t stop to let him catch his breath or move or do anything. Lio doesn’t stop until he’s spilling hard into his mouth, until his own lips part with a shuddery gasp and he can’t keep himself from saying “ _Fuck_.”

Mr. Thymos makes a panicked noise, his eyes squeezed shut. Lio pulls out, and the thin, pearl white strand suspended between the man’s lips and the tip of his cock is so fucking erotic he says again, at the sight of it, “Fuck, _fuck_.” He breathes out hard, and takes him once more by the hair.

“Don’t spit or I’ll slap the shit out of you.”

So Mr. Thymos, without opening his eyes, swallows. And his cute little mouth parts, and he sticks out his tongue, and he shows him. His big blue eyes blink open, and Lio sees exactly what he wants in them.

Complete and utter surrender.

He hoists Mr. Thymos up by his arm, and maneuvers him onto the desk, as usual. And he throws his legs open, as usual. And he clasps the vibrator wires in his fist and yanks them both out at once, and Mr. Thymos utters a high, cracked noise.

Lio switches them off and lets them clink to the floor. He pushes the man’s legs back, and watches the way his hole spasms, how it stands out, pink and pretty, open and abused. Twitching like it can’t bear not to be filled. But that can wait. And for now Lio grabs at the hem of Mr. Thymos’s too-tight shirt, and tugs it off his head, and discards it on the ground. He pinches a nipple between two fingers, tugs.

Lio bends down, close to his face. “You’re dying to cum, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Y-Yes,” Mr. Thymos whispers, and Lio is close enough to feel the word feather-light on his own lips.

“You’re a slut.” It feels so good, always, to call him that. “You’re a fucking _slut_.”

Mr. Thymos looks away, like he’s embarrassed, which is just darling of him, that he’d be embarrassed after all they’ve done, after all the times he’s begged for it. It’s just a little hilarious.

“You’re shy?” Lio asks, running his fingers from the man’s chest to his stomach and back again, feeling over every slope and curve. Some of his bruises are healing too quickly for Lio's liking. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Lio…”

“You’re embarrassed when you’ve begged me before to fuck you raw?”

“That… That’s…”

“You don’t have a right to be embarrassed,” Lio hisses. He stabs his nails into the man’s skin, leaves tiny moon-shaped marks. “You’re just a dirty whore.”

He stands up straight and abruptly says, “Get yourself off.”

Mr. Thymos looks bewildered.

“Make yourself cum,” Lio says. “I’ll watch.”

“O-Oh…”

If he was embarrassed before, he’s positively awkward now. He strokes his cock in faltering movements, unsteady, clumsy. No technique to it, just aiming to satisfy a physical ache. His chest rises and falls like a tide, and his voice comes out like the crashing of waves, his whole body a violent, thundering ocean. Like he is a self-contained tempest, devouring from the inside. In spite of his lack of expertise, it’s beautiful to watch.

Mr. Thymos seemingly gets to the point where he’s starting to forget reason, and Lio sees him bite down on his bottom lip.

So he reaches out and grips the man’s neck, pins his head to the desk. Sparks fizzle beneath Lio’s skin. He squeezes his throat and feels it in his hand how Mr. Thymos struggles to breathe. Lio says, through gritted teeth, “How many times do I have to tell you _not to fucking bite yourself.”_

Mr. Thymos cums, then. He locks eyes with Lio, and cums hard onto his abdomen. He tries to gasp through the hand on his neck, and only lets out pitiful sounds. And when he spills it all, he goes boneless, and he blinks up at Lio and doesn’t fight him. His eyes go hazy and unfocused, his chest jerks. And he only lies there.

Lio removes his hand, and Mr. Thymos inhales harsh lungfuls. He reaches up to touch his own throat, and that’s when Lio sees them.

He hardly has a chance to even process what he’s seeing before he pulls the man’s arms away, holds tight to his wrists. And sees scratches there, remarkably thin and wine red, hard to notice, which is how Lio hadn’t seen them until now. They cover the man’s arms like notches left on a canvas. Little maroon lines, some hideous, perfect lattice.

Mr. Thymos isn’t as dumb as he seems, after all. He understands, right away, the look on Lio’s face, and the danger of it. He starts to speak, and Lio doesn’t listen.

“That— Lio, it’s because—“

“Are you hurting yourself?”

Mr. Thymos stops stock still. His face is confused.

“What?”

“If it isn’t that, then someone did this to you,” Lio says, keeping his voice measured. “Right?”

There’s a fire now, raging throughout his body, asking to be let out. Telling him to burn. To take this man in his hands and burn him to ashes. His fingers tremble.

“Right?” he repeats.

Mr. Thymos seals his fate when he says, “Yes, but it’s not—“

Lio won’t hear any more. He walks to the schoolbag he dropped earlier, and pulls out his pocket knife. He flips it open, walks back to Mr. Thymos, raises his arm, and brings his fist down hard enough to stick the knife a few centimeters into the wood of the desk under them, right next to the man’s head.

Mr. Thymos exhales.

“Do you know how many times I’ve fucked you?” Lio asks him.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t know?”

His face has gone almost comically pale. He looks just like a deer in headlights, motionless. The terror written plainly on his face is something Lio could stare at forever.

He smiles. “You wanna take a guess?”

But he still doesn’t speak, and so Lio yanks the knife out, and presses the blade to the curve of the man’s ribcage.

“Guess,” he orders.

Tears start welling in Mr. Thymos’s eyes, and Lio feels himself growing hard again.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out.

“You don’t know?”

“No,” he sobs.

Lio nicks him with the knife. Mr. Thymos yelps, and Lio watches a crimson bead of blood quiver on the surface of his skin. It’s like a ruby. It streaks downward, and leaves a narrow, pathetic stripe.

“Will you remember if I mark you every time we do it?” Lio asks. The idea is tempting to him. Fucking him and leaving a mark each time. Keeping a tally. Going over old cuts with the point of his knife, keeping them tender and new. Doing it until there’s nothing but a blotchy scar, a permanent indication of ownership. No one could ever dispute who he belongs to, with something like that on him.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Thymos says, as he is surely used to doing by now. “Lio, don’t.”

“So tell me how many times.”

“But I don’t know.” He’s so cute when he cries. “I don’t know, Lio.”

Enough. Lio makes a frustrated noise, and strikes him across the face with the back of his hand. He tosses his knife to the floor, and does it again. And he says, “Forty-three times, you fucking _dumbass_.”

A shallow welt is starting to show on Mr. Thymos’s cheek. He’s openly crying, sniffling loudly and letting out little hiccups, and his glasses are lopsided, and he looks like a fucking beautiful mess, this image that Lio has created with his own hands, the reds and purples and the crystal clear tears, like a painting, like Lio dipped his fingers in dye and stained him everywhere. And so without warning, he hitches the man’s legs back, and lines up his cock with that familiar ring of muscle, and buries himself in the beauty of him.

Lio makes no effort to prepare him, or even get him used to it. He sets a brutal pace immediately. It hurts, he can tell. Because Mr. Thymos wails and arches away from it on instinct, and shakes his head and scratches hard at the desk. And his hands find their way to Lio’s sweater, and they clutch to the fabric. He wants to say no, Lio can see it. He wants to say _stop, don’t, it hurts_. And he won’t.

Lio dares him to, anyway. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes. He tightens his grip on the man’s thighs, and laughs a little. “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

Obviously, he won’t. He wouldn’t stop even if Mr. Thymos was brave enough to say something. But it feels good to give him that false hope, and see what he does with it. Even when they both know it’s a lie.

“Lio,” Mr. Thymos cries.

“I know you don’t want it.”

“Lio.”

“I’ll stop, so tell me.”

“Don’t stop.”

Mr. Thymos wraps his legs around Lio, even when his whole body vibrates with pain, even when he flexes away unconsciously. He locks his ankles, and holds tight to Lio’s sweater. “Don’t stop,” he says again, and his voice is wrecked.

So Lio doesn’t stop. He thrusts over and over into him, into that space so perfectly open for him. It clings to him greedily, and lets out obscene, wet sounds. And he leans back and watches his cock go in and out of him, how it drags back and then disappears inside, so pretty, so fucking good, how Mr. Thymos squeezes around him like this is what he’s made to do. A perfect, perfect burning. The man keens and cries out, and begs him not to stop. Lio calls him a slut and a whore and filthy fucking bitch, and he loves how the words sound out loud, so he does it more and more and more. He tells Mr. Thymos to call himself a slut and he does it, he says “I’m a slut,” in a shy little voice, and Lio makes him do it again, again, again. “I’m a slut, I’m a slut, I’m a slut.” Saying it through his sobs, and looking up at Lio with eyes like a hunted animal. “I’m a slut, I’m a slut, I’m a slut.”

“Tell me to cum in you,” Lio says.

“Cum in me,” he gasps.

“Beg me to.”

And Mr. Thymos throws his arms around Lio’s neck and rocks his hips back and whines, “Cum in me, cum in me.”

“God, you’re a fucking _slut_.”

“I’m a slut,” Mr. Thymos cries, “I want it, I want it, I’m a slut, I _want_ it. Cum in me, Lio, cum in me.”

“Say please.”

“Please, please.” He’s nothing like himself anymore. “Lio, please please _please_.” He can’t take it anymore, Lio knows it. It’s perfect.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks, and of course, Mr. Thymos sobs, “Lio Fotia.”

He plunges in once more and cums hard into him. And while he’s doing it, while his hips stutter, he reaches for the man’s sensitive, slick cock and strokes it rough and fast and ruthlessly, and feels Mr. Thymos’s nails dig into his scalp, hears the pitch of his moans go up and up and up until he empties onto himself, again, a translucent little set of spurts that land on his chest and face. And that’s when Lio lets himself collapse on top of him.

It feels like minutes go by until Lio raises his head, but he knows it’s probably closer to seconds. He’s dizzy, and his hair is sticking to his mouth. He spits it out, and is suddenly hit by a throbbing in his waist he’s definitely going to have to ice later. Or he could buy some patches at the convenience store on the way home. He just knows it’s going to be a huge fucking nuisance later.

“I’ve been fostering cats.”

He almost doesn’t know where the fuck that came from until he looks down, and sees Mr. Thymos staring directly back at him. He pushes past the thought of how sexy he looks with cum all over his face, and says, “What?”

“I’ve been fostering. Cats,” he repeats.

Okay. “Uh—“

“That’s why I’m always busy on the weekends. And why my arms look like this.”

You could hear a fucking pin drop in that room, in the silence that ensues. Lio doesn’t move.

“One of the cats can’t sleep alone, so I sleep with her whenever she wants, and then I end up not checking my phone.”

What?

“The other one is a pretty aggressive little guy, so I end up with his claw marks on me. And since he’s always running around and getting dirty, I have to give him baths all the time, and he just lets me have it.”

“Are you serious,” Lio blurts, because now that he thinks about it, that makes way too much sense.

“Yeah. I really like cats, so I volunteer for the shelter by my apartment.”

Mr. Thymos sits up, and gently extricates himself from his entanglement with Lio’s body, and nearly falls on his way to grab his long-abandoned sweatpants from earlier. He pulls out his phone from the pocket, thumbs through it, and shows Lio a picture of two kittens, one orange-striped and baring its teeth, and the other one, totally gray and sitting primly on what looks to be a pink pet bed.

Fucking Christ.

“So, yeah,” he says, and even _smiles_ , and it’s his usual angel smile. “But they’re really cute.”

“You’re really cute,” Lio corrects him, and pulls him close again, mouths at his neck. “ _You’re_ the one who’s cute.”

“I named him Leo.”

Lio draws back, instantly. “Wait, wh—“

“‘Cause, you know…” the man hesitates, like he’s suddenly bashful about it. Somehow, always so innocent. “He’s always leaving marks on me, like you.”

“I love you,” Lio says, immediately. And he presses his lips to that angel smile, and drinks in the man’s sighs. “I _love_ you.”

And he kisses him and kisses him, and doesn’t stop until they’re both hard again, until he can make him cum a third time and swallow his breaths, like he could pull them from his lungs. And own even that part of him.

He traces over the cut he made earlier, the one that bled, and whispers a sinister sweet promise into the man’s mouth.

“I’ll never let you go.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you've made it to the end you're as much of a heathen as i am.  
> i really love this fucked up dynamic, so i might write more. while writing this i realized there's kinda, a lot more ways i wanna bully Galo. hah  
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sympamore), i need promare brainrot moots.


End file.
